


Break My Fall

by chemm80



Series: Body Work 'Verse [6]
Category: Sons of Anarchy, Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-22
Updated: 2009-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:18:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jax can’t put his finger on it, but something about Dean is different; he’s changed in some fundamental way. Dean’s always been a hard man to know, doesn’t give up his secrets easily, and most of what Jax does know about him he’s learned from observation...There’s a strange energy baking off of him now, like he’s wound up, engine revved to the point of overload and getting ready to throw a rod any minute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break My Fall

Jax has idled his way through three beers in as many hours when he motions the bartender over to settle his tab. It’s not that late, but the noise level in the bar passed his threshold of comfort a while ago. He’s irritable, he knows, but if he wanted to put up with this shit he could have gone to the local chapter’s clubhouse, or hell…just stayed home. But there’s a reason he’s all the way up here in Redding in the first place. He’s not exactly feeling the fraternal love at the moment.

He’s on his way to the door when he hears the fight start up: somebody yells, there’s the sound of shuffling feet, chairs crashing and toppling. Jax wants badly to pretend he didn’t hear, just walk away and leave them all to their moronic just deserts, but the owner is a friend. Jax stops and turns around, sighing.

Jax glances at Carl, who’s reaching under the bar, no doubt for some kind of weapon. Jax gives the bartender a small shake of his head and casually makes his way toward the back of the room where the disturbance is continuing, but apparently not escalating much. The crowd seems more inclined to watch the entertainment than to join in as Jax pushes through.

There’s a man crouched next to the pool table. He’s got short, spiky hair and a leather jacket, and he’s holding a pool cue in front of him with both hands. He’s a fairly big guy, but the biker he’s facing off against is really huge.

“Fuck me,” Jax mutters. He knows both men, also knows which of the two is going to cause him the most trouble.

Dean Fucking Winchester.

Jax pushes forward through the crowd and he’s immediately got the attention of the biker, based on the cut and Samcro patch Jax is wearing, and also the fact that Jax has known the guy since he was a kid.

“Hey, Streeter,” Jax says casually, then adds, “What’s up, Dean?”

“You know this cheatin’ piece of shit, Jax?” Streeter asks, with a sneer at Dean.

Jax is focused on Streeter, but he catches movement out of the corner of his eye and jerks his head back at the last second. He hears the butt of the pool cue in Dean’s hands whip past his ear before it cracks into Streeter’s temple. It drops the big man where he stands, but the momentum of the swing carries Dean off balance and he staggers forward.

Jax recovers from his dodge in time to take advantage of Dean’s stumble. He body checks Dean into the wall face first and keeps him there by twisting Dean’s left arm up behind him. Dean tenses against the hold, not really struggling, just testing Jax’s grip. Jax ratchets the arm up a little tighter, knows it’s got to hurt like a bitch, but Dean turns his head, trying to look over his shoulder at Jax. That’s when Jax realizes he’s laughing, the sick son of a bitch.

“Jax…long time no see, man,” Dean pants, grinning crazily, and Jax doesn’t actually need the confirmation of Dean’s alcohol-laced breath in his face to know that he’s _really_ drunk. Otherwise, he’d never be this pliable, this easily pinned.

“That’s my bad shoulder you’ve got a hold of,” Dean says, still grinning.

“I know,” Jax says, smiling back. “Time to go,” he adds.

Jax glances at Streeter, but he’s already getting up and Jax throws him a nod, satisfied that he’s going to live and that he’s done with the fight. Jax pulls Dean around and away from the wall. Keeping his arm twisted up high enough to make him pay attention, Jax starts steering Dean toward the door. The crowd parts for them and then loses interest.

Their progress is slow even though Dean’s not putting up a fight anymore, just letting out a breathy grunt about every third step, equal parts pain and laughter.

“Come on, Jax…ow, _fuck,_ ” Dean says, wincing.

Jax relaxes the pressure on his arm a little, not wanting to actually damage him, and Dean stumbles forward suddenly. Off balance, Jax only realizes it was a feint when Dean’s right elbow pistons backward, slams into Jax’s ribcage. Jax’s breath rushes out with a groan and he lets go of Dean. Jax staggers back, bent over. Dean swings again, but he’s too drunk for any degree of accuracy and he misses.

Jax growls a curse. He was so not in the mood for this when it started and he’s beyond pissed now. He straightens up and swings. Dean sways right into Jax’s left hook to the jaw, goes down hard and stays there. Jax stands over him for a few seconds, panting and wincing as he probes at his ribs.

Carl nods at Dean. “Want me to call somebody to pick up that mess, Jax?”

Jax closes his eyes and for a minute he’s seriously considering the offer. He could just wash his hands of this, let the cops take care of it. But finally he shakes his head. It’s not like Dean hasn’t helped Jax out of a tight spot a time or two. He won’t do that to a friend.

“No, I got him. Get somebody to keep an eye on my bike, though, huh?”

Carl nods. Jax leans down and hauls Dean’s unconscious form into a fireman’s carry, staggers out the door, looking for the familiar black shape. He spots the Impala on the very edge of the parking lot.

“Fuck, Dean, you are one heavy son of a bitch…need to lay off the cheeseburgers, man.”

In point of fact, Dean actually feels a little thinner, less bulky, than the last time Jax had his hands on him. His dead weight is still a bitch to carry, though, and Jax mutters a running stream of insults until he’s out of breath, cursing as he slides Dean off his shoulder next to the car. He braces Dean’s limp form against the back door, searches his pocket for the keys.

Jax finally gets the doors open and wrestles Dean across the back seat. He thinks about just leaving him there to sleep it off, but he can’t quite make himself do it. He’s got a bad feeling about this. Dean was right, it has been a while since they’ve seen each other—two years give or take, Jax would guess—and it’s not like they were close friends or anything, but still...

“You’re a goddamned bleeding heart, Jax, picking up strays,” Jax accuses his reflection in the rearview mirror, as he slides into the driver’s seat.

The place Juice keeps off highway number 5 isn’t far. It’s just a busted-up little tin can of a trailer, but it’s comfortable enough as long as the weather doesn’t get too cold and he doesn’t need anything fancy. He puts the car in park and gets out, walks around to the back passenger door, ready to drag Dean out headfirst. Dean rouses a bit, but Jax still has to manhandle him to his feet. When Jax finally gets him up and steadied, Dean gives him a bleary-eyed grin.

“Hey, Jax! What are ya doin’ here, man?” Dean says, like he hasn’t seen him in weeks.

Jax rolls his eyes, then takes another look at Dean’s face and steps back, barely gets his shoes out of the way in time. Dean leans over and vomits into the dirt, heaving and groaning loudly for what seems like several minutes. He lets Dean pant for a while, crouched over with his hands on his knees.

“You done?” Jax asks, not particularly sympathetic.

Dean coughs and spits a couple of times, then nods. The sudden head motion overbalances him and Jax takes hold of his arm and hauls him upright, steering him around the puddle of puke. Jax opens the door to the trailer and herds Dean up the rickety steps, grabbing a handful of the front of his shirt and using it to maneuver him toward the narrow bed. Dean plops down and Jax pulls his hand back in disgust, rinses the slime off it into the tiny bowl of a sink. He turns back to Dean and peels his jacket off of him one sleeve at a time while Dean just sits there blinking. It’s like undressing a sleepy five year old and Jax rolls his eyes at him again, wondering briefly if they’re going to get stuck that way before this night is over. He reaches for Dean’s filthy t-shirt, pulling it off over his head while trying (mostly) not to smear Dean’s face with the mess that’s splattered down the front.

Jax tosses the t-shirt on the floor, figures he’ll worry about finding Dean something else to wear later. He rummages in the cabinets, finally locates a chipped coffee mug and runs some water into it. He hopes the water’s reasonably clean, but he’s not particularly confident of the sanitary nature of Juice’s plumbing and the one light is too dim to see for sure. Jax can’t really care too much. He pulls a filthy-looking five-gallon bucket out of the cramped closet of a toilet. God only knows what Juice uses it for, but Jax sets the bucket by the bed and hands Dean the water.

“Rinse,” Jax grunts.

“’Kay,” Dean says agreeably and slurps some into his mouth, but he swallows it instead of spitting into the bucket. Taking the mug away but leaving the bucket where it is just in case, he gives Dean a shove to the shoulder, tipping him over onto the bed. Dean passes out before Jax gets his boots unlaced.

Jax sighs and looks around. The trailer is furnished in the loosest sense of the word with a narrow sofa folded out into an only slightly wider bed, a cramped table, and the miniscule bathroom. The linoleum floor is scarred and stained some indeterminate shade of grayish brown. The place smells like dust and old sweat and an indifferently functioning chemical toilet.

The bench behind the table looks cramped and uncomfortable and Jax plops down onto the only other seating option, a decrepit beanbag chair which protests the rough treatment by spraying little white beads of stuffing into the air. Jax snorts a laugh through his nose. Home sweet home.

_But that was what you came here to escape, wasn’t it?_ He does feel like he’s run away from home and when he really thinks about it, he realizes he’s fresh out of plausible deniability for that. He’d hated leaving Abel, but whatever he suspects about Gemma and Clay and his father’s death, he knows Gemma will make sure the baby’s okay, help Wendy keep her head on straight until Jax gets back. He just needed some time away from all the shit, the responsibility. He needs some time to think.

_He became a man, and men take care of business,_ his mother had said, talking about his father. Jax is thirty years old and he’s just now feeling like a man himself, for Christ’s sake. It took Abel’s birth to do that, he guesses. So now they’re all waiting on him—his son, the club, Tara, everyone who matters—all of them watching to see if he’ll carry the load or be crushed by it. Fuck, he’s so tired.

So of course his first act in exile is to take on another responsibility. _Shit._ And this one’s a grown man himself. Perfectly capable of taking care of himself too, or usually anyway, even if he is drooling all over Jax’s pillow at the moment. Except…Jax can’t put his finger on it, but something about Dean is different; he’s changed in some fundamental way. Dean’s always been a hard man to know, doesn’t give up his secrets easily, and most of what Jax does know about him he’s learned from observation—watching him fight, watching him fuck, watching him work on his goddamned car. There’s a strange energy baking off of him now, like he’s wound up, engine revved to the point of overload and getting ready to throw a rod any minute. Even drunk like Dean was tonight, Jax could sense it.

He takes another look at Dean lying facedown and shirtless on the bed and decides he was right about him having lost weight. His ribs are a little too prominent, the line of his jaw just a bit too sharp. And that’s when the realization hits: there are no scars. The guy had a _shitload_ of scars before. Jax saw them, touched them with his own two hands, his mouth. But now…Dean’s back is clear and smooth, not a mark on him.

Jax gets up and leans over Dean to inspect him more closely. He sees that he was wrong—there is one scar, but it’s new. No way he wouldn’t have noticed a mark that size, in the shape of a damned handprint, no less. He runs his finger across the puckered skin of Dean’s left shoulder and Dean twitches, moans and shifts in his sleep.

Jax wipes a hand across his mouth, steps away from the bed and then back again, all the pacing the space allows. If he’d thought something wasn’t right before… _shit_ , this is fucking unnatural. Thoughts chase each other around his brain until his head hurts—everything from plastic surgery to a long lost twin brother—and he can’t come up with any explanation, or even a reasonable theory. He finally just gives it up, swears it’s the first thing he’s asking Dean when he comes around, fucking beat it out of him if he has to and he’s not taking any bullshit for an answer.

Then he realizes another thing that’s weird, and it should have been the first thing he picked up on. _Where is Sam?_ It was the reason he’d met Dean in the first place, his brother’s presence at Stanford, and Jax is just now missing the fact that he’s not there. He really is tired. As far as Jax knows neither brother ever goes anywhere without the other since Sam left school. Unless…

_Christ_ , _if something happened to Sam_ … At least it would explain the out-of-control drinking. Jax grabs Dean’s jacket and rifles the pockets, finally comes up with Dean’s phone. He finds Sam’s number in the index and hits the button, cursing when the voice mail picks up. He lays the phone on the counter within reach in case there’s a call back.

Jax can’t think of anything else he can or should do right now, so he slips off his cut and slouches tiredly back into the chair. He’s asleep in seconds.

**

Dean shuts his eyes against it, thinks he does, but he can’t always tell, he sees them anyway, flayed open and bloody, and he never could close his ears against the screams. It’s always like this, he’s always thinking this time it’s going to be real, he’s been in Hell all along and making it topside again is the hallucination. Someone’s calling his name, trying to reach him, make him see, and he tries to shut it out, stay under a little longer, no, no, no…don’t look, don’t hear, don’t feel…

“Dean! Stand down, goddamn it!”

Dean blinks and it takes him a second to put a name to the face… _it’s_ _Jax…_ Jax looks worried and a little scared and he has Dean pinned to a bed…somewhere; Dean doesn’t recognize the place. It makes him wonder again if he’s seeing right.

Dean shakes his head to clear it and Jax sits back on his heels, lets out a shaky breath as Dean sucks one in, his lungs burning like they haven’t had enough air in a while.

“Fuck,” Jax breathes. He rolls off Dean and hits the floor in one smooth motion, guard up, like he wants his feet under him for whatever’s coming next.

Dean knows the feeling.

Jax doesn’t look as scared as he did a minute ago, maybe figures he can handle Dean now that he’s coherent. _But you_ should _be afraid,_ Dean thinks. _You really should be._

And Dean should be getting out of here… _wherever here is_ , he thinks, frowning in confusion. Jax is watching him warily and Dean is suddenly irritated.

“You can relax. I’m not gonna jump you,” Dean mutters, wiping a hand across his mouth.

“Although it feels like I owe you some payback,” Dean adds, rubbing across the point of his chin with his thumb, frowning at the spongy feel of the swollen tissue.

“Dragged your sorry drunk ass out of the way of a pretty serious beating, so…you’re welcome,” Jax says dryly, relaxing a little.

“I had it under control…that big motherfucker never saw it coming,” Dean says with a soft snort.

“Cut the bullshit, Dean,” Jax says. Dean opens his mouth in automatic protest and Jax cuts him off.

“No, I’m not talking about you and Streeter. You’re probably right about that,” Jax allows wryly, then his look turns serious again. “I’m talking about whatever’s wrong with you.”

Dean wishes he didn’t know what Jax is talking about, but he’s sitting in a place he doesn’t recognize, with no clear idea of how he got there and in his line of work, there’s really no excuse for being that drunk. Still, there’s no way he’s getting into this with Jax, even if he had a clue where to start. Jax knows a little about what he and Sam do—or what they used to do, before being Heaven’s bitch became Dean’s full time job and Sam started moonlighting with a demon—but Jax doesn’t know about the Deal, or Hell, or anything that came after it and Dean would rather chew broken glass than tell him any of that.

“Just because you sucker-punched me and dragged me off to…whatever this is…” Dean looks around and makes a face, then shakes his head. “You know, Jax, if you wanted me that bad, you shoulda just asked, it’s not like it’s that tough to get into my pants…”

“You can save that load of horseshit for somebody that didn’t just have to sit on you to keep you from ripping the place apart,” Jax says, eyes hard.

Dean has had about enough of this shit. He gets up, grabs his boots and looks around for his jacket, then down at himself. Damn it _,_ he’s not even wearing a fucking shirt.

Jax just watches him for a second or two, then blocks the trailer’s flimsy door with his body and folds his arms. Dean stops and looks at him, already knowing he’s not going to like this.

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on,” Jax states flatly.

“Nothing’s going on,” Dean says through tight lips, making a move toward the door like he’s leaving, if he has to go through Jax to do it. “Just stay out of my way.”

Jax doesn’t move.

“Sit down, Dean.” It’s an order, one Jax obviously expects will be obeyed.

Dean heaves an exasperated sigh.

“Goddamn it, Jax, I’m gettin' a headache here and I know that’s my own damned fault, but this is not some whiny talk show and you’re not Dr. Phil, so thanks anyway…”

“Where’s Sam?” Jax cuts him off. Dean knows he probably flinched enough for Jax to notice, but he bluffs it out until Jax face softens a little and he continues.

“Is he all right?”

“Sam’s fine,” Dean says, carefully expressionless.

“Glad to hear it,” Jax answers, obvious relief on his face. Jax’s interrogation doesn’t annoy Dean any less because Jax actually cares whether Sam’s alive or dead, but it’s the middle of the night and suddenly Dean’s way too tired to fight about it. Besides, Jax is just trying to be a good guy here, and Dean figures he’s been enough of an asshole for one night.

Dean lets his boots fall to the floor and sits down hard on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. Sitting down feels like giving up and it takes the rest of the wind out of his sails. _Shit._ He’d thought he had the whole flashback problem under control, although he guesses he should have known that heavy drinking wasn’t going to fix anything. It’s one thing to keep Sam from going bad, from hurting anyone, but if Dean himself is a danger—when he’s asleep for Christ’s sake—then he’s already lost the battle.

And it’s not like talking about it is going to help anything, even if Dean was ever planning on doing that, but Jax doesn’t seem to be in the mood to take no for an answer. Still, nobody knows better than Dean how people mostly hear what they want to hear, see no more than what they can handle. Sometimes it’s just best to hide in plain sight.

He gives Jax a long, considering look before he speaks. “How long has it been, Jax? Two years?”

“About that, I guess.”

Dean nods. “Well since you gotta know, it’s been an eventful couple of years. I’ve been to Hell and back. I’ve seen and done a lot of bad shit and I don’t want to talk about any of it.”

He pauses for a minute, but Jax just waits for him to go on. Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out.

“And yeah, maybe it’s fucked with my head some, but it’s not like I wasn’t always a few degrees south of normal anyway.”

Jax looks away, nodding. “I guess we’ve all got our demons,” he says thoughtfully, sinking down onto the other end of the bed.

Dean snorts softly. “You could put it that way.”

They sit without speaking for a moment and Dean shifts restlessly. _Fuck this noise._

“I swear Jax, don’t you have anything to drink in this dump? I mean, you drag a man out of a bar, the least you can do is offer him a beer.”

Jax chuckles and the tension in the air lifts a little.

“Hell, I don’t know, I’m just staying here for a day or two,” Jax says, but he gets up to look in the tiny refrigerator next to the sink. “There’s beer; no telling how old it is, though.” He pulls out a couple of longnecks, hands one to Dean and opens the other.

Dean’s dehydrated and headachy and his mouth tastes like something crawled in there and died, so he’s a long-ass way from being choosy right now. It turns out to be a good call, because by the time he’s made it around about half the bottle he’s feeling a little more in command of himself and the situation.

“So what are you doing way up in Northern Cali anyway, Jax? Don’t your duties as vice Grand Poobah down at fuckin’ Biker Central keep you busy enough nowadays?”

Jax smirks and shakes his head. “Yeah, well, like you said…it’s been a hell of a couple of years.”

Dean raises his eyebrows and takes another swallow, waits for him to go on.

“Got married, got divorced and had a kid, all in the last two years.”

“Shit!”

Dean chokes on a mouthful of beer, honestly horrified. Bringing a kid into the world right now, being responsible for a child with the shit that’s getting ready to go down …it’s one of the few jobs that sound more difficult to Dean than his own. But then Jax’s chuckle reminds him that maybe his wasn’t the most appropriate response to a declaration of fatherhood.

“I mean, um…congratulations?” Dean says uncertainly.

“No, it’s all right…‘oh shit’ was pretty much my response to the news too,” Jax says wryly. “But I’ve kind of gotten used to the little guy now,” he adds, smiling.

“So, you’re a dad then. That’s awesome, really, good for you,” Dean says, getting with the program and saluting Jax with his bottle.

Jax nods and tips his bottle at Dean, drinks quietly for a moment before continuing.

“Yeah, he’s the best part of it. The rest, well…calling it a ‘clusterfuck’ is kind of an understatement,” Jax says. He sighs deeply.

“Anyway, nice try, but we’re not talking about me,” Jax continues, eyeing Dean narrowly. “What happened to your scars, Dean?”

_Oh yeah._ He’d almost forgotten about the missing shirt _._ Dean breathes out hard through his nose, closes his eyes briefly.

“Look Jax, Sam is fine, I’m fine…everybody’s just fucking _peachy_. Just let it go,” Dean grits.

Jax surges up from the bed and picks up Dean’s phone, nods at it.

“’Everything’s fine’? That is bullshit of the purest ray serene, Winchester. Sam’s not here—won’t even answer your fucking phone calls, for Christ’s sake—and that’s _fine_ with you?”

He tosses the phone at Dean and Dean catches it without taking his eyes from Jax, who apparently isn’t done.

“Goddamn it, Dean, you were yelling in your sleep, thrashing around and I couldn’t wake you up…”

“Look man, I appreciate the concern…” Dean starts, and he’s not lying—the concern is fine—it’s just the way it’s manifesting that’s pissing him off. This stupid little metal box is feeling more and more like a trap by the second. The more Jax talks, the more he raises the volume, until he’s up in Dean’s face, leaning forward like he’s ready to grab him and shake some sense into him or something.

“And the look in your eyes, like you didn’t know who I was…or hell, who _you_ even were…shit, man…that’s not ‘fine’—that’s fucking PTSD!”

It’s not even a conscious act, but Dean’s up and on Jax before he finishes the sentence. The element of surprise is more than enough and it takes less than a second for Dean to take Jax down. He pins Jax to the bed, straddling him, holding the blade of Jax’s own belt knife against the thin skin of his throat. For a long second Dean _wants_ —wants to press down, see the blood well up and the fear bloom in his eyes, hear him plead, beg for his life—and Dean squeezes his eyes shut.

It’s a good thing for them both that Jax stops struggling then. He’s still tense, hands clamped around Dean’s wrists and breathing hard, but not really fighting, not giving Dean a reason—an _excuse_ —to give into the urge to slice and tear, to relieve the buzzing itch under his skin that’s never really gone away since he got out of Hell.

Jax stays quiet and still until Dean finally feels like he’s got enough control to look at him. Just as Dean opens his eyes Jax twists under him, presses up with his hips. It’s a subtle movement, but it’s enough for Dean to feel that Jax is _hard_. And _shit_ , _this is…_ Dean doesn’t even have words for it, how fucked up this is, but it calls to him, pulls at the corruption inside him, the part that rotted in Hell.

He searches Jax’s face, and yeah, they’ve been here before, but that was _before,_ when Dean was whole. There’s a reason Dean’s only gotten laid once since he got back from Hell. It has a little to do with the way angels keep dropping in unexpectedly, but a whole lot more to do with how far Dean can or can’t trust himself. That was always the point of fucking guys for Dean anyway—never having to worry about breaking anybody, no need to be gentle, to just dominate or submit, sometimes more about winning the fight than anything. But he can’t do that any more. Lessons from Hell are well learned…flesh is so, so fragile…so deliciously, easily torn. He doesn’t need the knife, could rip Jax’s throat open with his teeth, has done that and worse before, in Hell. If he ever lets himself go, he might not stop.

Dean can’t do this.

The hand holding the knife starts to shake a little and the movement draws Dean’s eyes to where the blade indents Jax’s skin. He can _see_ the pulse pounding underneath, blood rushing hot and alive, and his breath hitches. He forces his gaze back to Jax’s face, meets his eyes, and _shit_ …it shouldn’t be such a shock. Dean’s seen Jax turned on before but not like this, open and wanting, so desperate for it. Jax locks stares with him, then tilts his head back, arching his neck against the pressure of the knife, baring his throat even more, and Dean’s dick goes suddenly, shockingly hard.

“Please,” Jax whispers, rolling his hips.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Dean says, teeth gritting so hard it’s painful.

Dean says it, but he’s not letting Jax up and Dean really is insane if he’s even thinking about doing this, but maybe…Jax is a good fighter, not trained like Dean is, but making up for it with sheer intensity—once Jax loses his cool it’s no holds barred—so yeah, he’s not defenseless.

Jax just watches Dean like he’s trying to figure him out, read his mind, then he swallows hard, shuddering as his throat flexes against the knife. He drops his hands from Dean’s wrists to lie palms up against the bed on either side of his head. _Fuck,_ he looks like a goddamned sacrifice, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat, forces its way out somewhere between a grunt and a sob.

Dean lets himself look for a moment— _Jesus Christ,_ he’s so incredibly hot, eyes glittering dark with arousal, mouth open and panting out little breaths, short and sharp—and Dean can’t help it. He rides out a full body shudder and then eases the knife away from Jax’s throat, sends it spinning across the floor with a flick of his wrist. Dean falls forward and presses his body flush against Jax, pinning his arms flat to the bed with both hands.

They’ve fucked before, always hard and fast and dirty, both struggling for dominance and trying to make the other break, but it’s never been anything like this, face to face and so needy. Dean’s still far from sure it’s a good idea, but he _wants_ to, needs to feel…

_Okay_ , he thinks. If they’re doing this, it’s got to be on Dean’s terms, his rules.

“You want this?” he asks, voice low and rough next to Jax’s ear. Jax shudders, makes a helpless little sound and bucks his hips up into Dean’s. Dean figures that’s answer enough.

“Gonna give it to you,” Dean says, dragging his mouth down the line of Jax’s jaw, “…but you don’t move unless I tell you to.” Jax sucks in a breath and Dean pulls back to look at him, making sure. “And don’t touch me unless I say it’s okay.”

Jax swallows hard and nods, like he can’t speak, and Dean knows the feeling. It’s too much, too intense—but it’s too hard to resist. Dean’s suddenly so tired of the uncertainty, sick to death of second guessing everything he does, and his next words come out sounding angry.

“Get these off,” he growls, pulling at the hem of Jax’s t-shirt and hoodie. Jax complies quickly, not sitting up any further than necessary to get everything off before he lies back down again.

Dean takes hold of Jax’s arms again and leans down, starts on his neck, licking away the salty taste, sucking hard over his pulse, running his tongue down the groove of his collarbone, uncaring of the marks he leaves behind. He works his way downward, scraping his teeth across Jax’s nipple, circling it with his tongue, feeling it harden against his mouth. He bites down and pulls back a little rough, and Jax’s hands fly up, nails digging into Dean’s bare shoulders.

_Red, screams, blood, pain…_

Dean jerks back, squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught, fighting the urge to sink his teeth into flesh, rip and tear at it. He struggles through it, breathing hard until the storm passes, finally opening his eyes to Jax’s uncertain stare.

“I said don’t…touch…me,” Dean grinds out.

Jax studies him for a moment like he might be rethinking this whole deal, but then he just nods, relaxes back against the bed.

Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out. He starts again, careful at first, then slowly losing himself in the feel of sweat-slick skin against his lips, his tongue. It feels good, better than anything has in a long time. He risks a small bite, teeth scraping against Jax’s collarbone. Jax tenses and gasps but he doesn’t move, and Dean keeps working him, licking and mouthing at his stomach, sucking dark marks into his skin, tongue sliding over the hard line of his ribs, outlining the muscles, until Jax is jerking and twitching at the slightest point of contact.

Dean reaches for Jax’s belt, flips it open, undoing his jeans and slipping them down in one smooth motion, slapping at one of Jax’s feet on the way down, instruction for him to toe off his shoes, and Jax does. Dean looks, lets his eyes drag over the smooth skin laid out under him, hot gaze lingering on Jax’s cock, rock hard and drooling moisture onto his flat belly. Dean licks his lips and Jax lets out a little grunt. It sounds kind of choked and Dean smirks slightly, leans over and runs his tongue down the groove of Jax’s hip.

“’S okay,” Dean breathes, laying his cheek against Jax’s hipbone, letting his breath ghost across his cock. “Let me hear you.”

“ _Fuck,”_ Jax moans out, voice soft and ragged with arousal.

“I’m gettin' to that,” Dean rasps. He moves over Jax excruciatingly slowly, hovering over his cock before he licks up the underside, sweeping the flat of his tongue over the head when he gets to the top. Jax is already trembling with the effort of lying still and when Dean seals his mouth around him and swallows him down, Jax moans loud and long and deep. Dean sucks him harder, long slow slides of his mouth up and down the length of him, tongue curling and flicking around the head on the upstroke. He teases and works him, light edge of teeth every now and then when he’s not expecting it, until Jax is breathing in gasps and pants, knuckles white as he grips the bedcovers like he needs something to hold onto.

“Fuck, Dean… _shit_ …need to, gotta…”

Dean groans and pulls back a little, keeping his lips locked around the head of Jax’s cock. He braces his forearm across Jax’s hips and sucks harder, flicking and curling his tongue, teasing at the head until Jax comes with a loud cry, his head thrown back and back arched, pumping into Dean’s mouth. Dean doesn’t swallow, just holds the bitter-salty fluid there, lets it settle against his tongue, watching Jax’s face until he finishes.

Dean lifts his chin and pulls off. He sits back, strips out of his own jeans quickly and kneels between Jax’s thighs. Jax is still panting and his legs shake when Dean grabs them and shoves his knees up toward his chest. Dean leans over him and lets some of Jax’s come pour out of his mouth and over his tight opening, spreading it around and rubbing, finally pushing it inside him with his thumb. Jax curses and jerks against his hand and Dean starts working him open, tonguing more come into him, fucking him slow and hard with his fingers and tongue, curling and rubbing across the sweet spot inside him until Jax is jerking and gasping and his cock is starting to get hard again.

It feels so good to make that happen, to be the instrument of something right for a change, make Jax moan and fall apart under his hands, his mouth. Dean’s own cock is aching hard, his balls throbbing, and he pulls away and sits back. He’s not much worried about a condom—figures nothing he might have had before could have survived Hell and anything Jax gives him won’t survive the apocalypse, so fuck it. Dean licks his palm and strokes himself a few times just to relieve the pressure, looking down at Jax’s body. Jax is not bulky, but he’s cut, muscles rippling under his skin, hot and flushed and slick with sweat. Jax’s eyes are closed and he picks that moment to run his tongue across his lips, fingers flexing against the bed, and Dean can’t take anymore.

He leans over Jax and lines up, curling his body and pushing with his hips until his cock is just inside him, tight rim squeezing him, tugging at the head. Dean waits a second or two, then reaches around Jax’s shoulders and pulls him down onto his cock, hard and sudden. Jax’s eyes go wide and his arms fly apart and slam against the bed, gripping and straining, body arched and every muscle locked. Dean’s ready, he was expecting the reaction, and he slides his left arm around Jax’s hips, holding him still while he talks him down.

“Hey…hey…you’re all right…I’ve got you,” Dean rumbles, watching Jax’s face gradually relax, even as he feels the weight of what he’s saying sink deep into his bones, threatening to pull him under. “I’ve got you,” he whispers again, letting his head fall forward to rest on the bed, waiting.

Jax gradually unwinds and Dean waits, gauging by feel when it’s time to start moving, and finally… _oh fuck, finally_ …he does, slow and easy at first, then with deep, rolling thrusts of his hips. It feels strange to Dean, how Jax is just lying there, taking it all; then Dean remembers he told him not to move. It’s sexy and so motherfucking _good_ , but it’s the goddamned _trust_ implicit in it that hits Dean at his core, makes him shudder and groan and fuck him harder.

Jax is panting and moaning, flexing under him, eyes rolling up a little with every thrust Dean makes, so hard and ready that Dean thinks he could probably just tell him to come and he would. _Fuck, let’s find out_.

Dean pushes deep into him, slow rhythm building and ramping up, rubbing his cock against the spot inside Jax until his every breath sounds like it’s being torn from his chest. Then Dean leans over him and speaks low.

“You wanna come, don’t you? Want me to touch you?” Dean growls, just to hear Jax beg, and he does.

“Please… _fuck_ …come on, Dean give it to me… _shit,”_ Jax breaks off with a choked sound as Dean wraps his fingers around Jax, strips his cock hard and slow, then speeds up, pulling and twisting his wrist. It’s maybe ten seconds before Jax makes a surprised noise and comes impossibly hard, arching his body and shooting thick over Dean’s hand, smearing slick and hot against his stomach, inner muscles squeezing and fluttering around Dean.

Dean groans at the sweet clench around his dick, losing all thought of control. He straightens up and hooks his elbows under Jax’s knees, pulling him up onto his cock, fucking him brutally hard, slap of skin loud as he slams into him. Jax doesn’t even try to move, just holds on, grunting and riding it out, until finally Dean’s rhythm starts to falter. A few more ragged thrusts and he comes, hips locked and thighs seizing.

His vision flashes red and a sharp pain shoots across his chest, blood pounding in his ears, and for one terrified second Dean’s sure it’s all over, he’s not going to come out of it in one piece this time and maybe Jax won’t either. Then the red washes over white again and he’s back in the _now_ , sharp, bright bursts of pleasure still pulsing through him, and for that one moment he feels clean.

Dean collapses onto Jax’s heaving chest and just breathes, because… _fuck_.

Jax lies there for a few seconds, then raises his arms like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, or with the fact that Dean’s draped all over him, finally settling one hand against Dean’s hip and the other on the short hairs at Dean’s neck, scratching gently with his fingers.

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Dean,” Jax rasps.

A bitter little laugh forces its way out of Dean.

“Not even close,” he says.

**

It’s a really short night after that and Jax gets maybe two hours of sleep before he wakes to Dean moving around, rocking the tiny trailer. Jax waits for Dean to get dressed and out the door before getting up and pulling on his own jeans and shoes. He cracks the door in time to see him toss his jacket into the front seat of the Impala.

“Dean,” Jax calls.

Dean stops there and looks back at him, one foot inside the car, right arm laid across her roof. The rising sun picks that moment to blaze over the horizon, flaming behind Dean, outlining him with fiery gold, making him look suddenly huge, and somehow… _fierce_. It suits him, Jax thinks, even as the picture sends a superstitious shiver down his spine. He has to remember to breathe again before he speaks.

“You all right?” Jax asks.

Dean looks at him for a long second, mouth twisting into something that’s probably supposed to be a smile, but never really makes it there.

“Good as new,” Dean says. He lifts a hand in goodbye and gets into the car.

Jax watches him drive away, a heavy sense of dread he can’t put a name to curling slowly through his gut like a venomous snake.

“See you, Dean,” Jax says softly, but he doubts that he will.


End file.
